Avara Horn and Jon Snow
by IlDolceSuono
Summary: What can I say, this is OC PWP. Avara is taken in by the Starks and Jon can't touch her but she lets him anyway. Just read it for the pr0n ;)


Ok, this is just some random shit I found in my email today and decided to upload since it was hot enough. Enjoy some completely shameless PWP.

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Avara Horn.

Jon Snow could remember everything about her if he closed his eyes and looked at the sun on those cold, northern days where the snow stung and the wind chapped. While the rest of the Starks were about ice, Avara boiled with a subtle fire, just enough to melt his stiff demeanor.

He had always looked on her with interest, though the first they met he was 7 and she was 3 and he'd been instructed not to let her wander off too far from the gardens. Ever since then, she'd been the secret he guarded most deeply.

Theon had eyes for her too. Jon noticed the way his eyes lingered on her when she was around, or the way his hands occasionally grazed the edge of her arm. Every little touch of hers that belonged to another man twisted a pit of hidden jealousy in his gut. As if swallowing poison, he remained silent, allowing his affections to remain unspoken.

He could recall one instance quite clearly in which he found Avara studying in the library only to be interrupted by Theon's lecherous hands snaking up her laced bodice and over her breasts. Jon was struck still, watching with horrorific interest as the curves of her body were traced and made all the more apparent.

Avara slapped him so hard he had to leave holding his cheek, muttering about how whores were so much easier to get along with than uptight tomboys.

Still, despite her obvious rejection of Theon, Jon made no move on her. She may have been an orphan with no heritage but he was a bastard.

That made him unworthy.

Four years difference grew to be nothing at all by the time he was old enough to know what all he was missing under her skirt.

Not that he ever thought he'd have the chance to see it, let alone touch it.

But she had.

God, how she made him wait. The first kiss she ever gave him (and it was indeed her assertion that caused the moment to transpire) had come well after he'd begun to take notice of her heavier breasts and fuller hips.

After years of silent longing, convincing himself that it was a hopeless crush unworthy of his attention, Avara found him one night by the stables. The moonlight bathed her copper mane in fresh silver, dripping down the corkscrews to fall on her pale breasts. He was utterly captivated by the look in her eyes and couldn't help but to give in when she pushed her body against his and pulled his mouth to hers. His heart had beat so fast that she put a hand over it to quell his nerves and the next thing he knew he had thrown his arms around her entirely and crushed her body to his chest, trapping her in his arms.

As quickly as it began, it was over. She released his cheeks and then looked up to him, silently, and stroked his stubbled chin with the tip of her finger. Jon stared back, eyes swimming with unspoken feeling that he liked to believe he saw reflected in her eyes.

But then she was gone, scurrying up the streets with her skirts clutched up to avoid the refuse and sewage.

He watched her until she disappeared from sight, reminding himself that she was still higher born. The Starks would marry her off to some foreigner to barter or lands or troops or political posture. They would marry her off to some fat prince and he'd never see her again. Never kiss her again.

That's how it had to be. Avara Horn was not his to lay claim to.

She found him the next day as she was passing him in the streets. Never one to stand on ceremony, she greeted him with a smile and allowed him to kiss her hand. Right there, right in front of everyone in the street and Avara Horn allowed Ned Stark's bastard to kiss the back of her hand.

He fell in love with her right then and there.

That night, when they met under the stars behind an old tree in the southern courtyard, Jon was the aggressor. He traced her face and lips with his thumbs, looking into her eyes like a man lost at sea until finally he tasted her again. Gentle at first, he explored the feel of her soft lips on his scratchy, bearded face, but whirled them around in a flash. Her back hit the tree, hair flying wildly as he pinned her to the spot. He felt her hair, pulling and sifting through it while he placed another boldly on her waist.

She kissed him all night, there under that tree. He was certain his hands brushed against her breasts once or twice, causing his cheeks to flame with color, but he did not pursue her further.

His guilt would not allow him to deflower the sweet, almost-lady Avara.

They continued to meet for months, stealing kisses, exchanging trinkets.

One day she came to him under the pretense of giving him a letter from Lord Stark but when she slipped the parchment into his hands she lay her palm on top of his hand, his dirty, calussed, bastard hand, and lifted on her toes to whisper in his ear.

"Meet me by the river tonight when the moon rises."

As per usual, he was stone-struck when she made her intentions clear but managed to splutter a marginally coherent response before she smiled and headed out the door.

That night, under the moon, Jon Stark recieved his first taste of a woman's love.

She had been all curves and soft light, all bouncing flesh and the salty taste of sweat. With every thrust of his hips he could feel a measure of his honor slipping away. He didn't belong inside of her, some duke did. He was stealing the innocence of a woman who could never be his.

Her body lied to him every time he indulged himself. Her tits whispered sweet lies into his ears about how no other man would see her like this. Her eyes promised him that her heart and body were exclusively his, especially every time he watched them roll into the back of her head. Every passionate kiss was a nail in his coffin. What if he got her pregnant? What if he fathered another bastard, another boy to go through the hell he did - and at least his dad wa a lord.

Jon Snow didn't care. Let her lie to him, so long as she never stopped bouncing...

He pulled out just in time to shoot his load all over the riverbank, mouth agape so that her nipple fell out of it in the throes of his pleasure.

The next time he got a hold of her he pulled her into his lap in one of the empty rooms in the hall and hiked her skirt up as she threw her arms around his neck. His hands were greedy and demanding, pulling at her to be closer and remove all obstacles between them and the sweet friction he intended to carry them through.

Avara tried to tease him by dancing away but he put both hands around her ass and pulled her closer, insisting that she stay. In that position her tits were in his face and her hair was tickling his cheeks and the soft smell of soap and sweat wafted up to his nostrils... He entered her in a quick thrust and then remained still, breathing evenly as he enjoyed the sensation of her around him. He savored her like a morsel of venison in the winter. By the time her slow bouncing started he was as hard as iron. Hands wandering, lips connected, he gently pulled and pushed at her hips while his fingers fumbled to undo her tunic's laces. Finally, her breasts fell freely and he latched his mouth to one of them, pulling her deeper onto him with both hands at her back.

"You're making too much noise," he warned, looking up suddenly as she groaned, panic in his dark eyes as the list of possible consequences stacked into his head.

Avara stopped moving and started pushing the hair off his sweating face.

"Are you ashamed to be here with me?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

Jon spluttered.

"No! I..." Avara cut him off with a lingering kiss, her tongue coming to slide along the length of his lips.

"Then you're worried about my honor?" she wondered, slowly starting again. He leaned back and looked up at her, frustrated and delighted all at once.

"You know what my concern is about," he said, quietly, looking away from her face. Just what he wanted to think about right now: being a bastard.

The sharp sound of flesh cracking flesh sounded and soon Jon was holding his cheek, looking up at her with irritation flashing in his eyes. A bastard and now apparently a toy to whip around?

"Stop worrying about that. You're the only one who cares," she snapped, obviously tired of his antics. With hands on his shoulders, she began to slide up and down his length more, grinning at the noise he made.

He gripped her hips tightly as he felt his release near. Chest rising and falling, he decided that he could put that concern away for another time. Right now she was here and wet and his.

At that thought he thrust up into her and was rewarded with a small whimper.

Pressing their foreheads together, Jon guided her hips with a grip that grew stronger by the moment. His eyes fell closed, his mouth open so that he could pant erratically while Avara continued to work her devil-magic on him. She said she didn't care if he was a bastard. No one had ever said that before...

"Mmmf..." was all he could manage to rasp as he pulled out of her, cock bobbing freely between his thighs while come jetted out the tip in thick, long bursts.

From then on, he was a man possessed.

He found her every chance he could and started learning more and more about how to please women by listening to the rubbish Theon was always telling him about Roz. The first time he pulled her knickers down and introduced her soft folds to his tongue she had given such a squeal that he had to reprimand her with a firm stare. With each movement of his tongue she quivered and seemed to grow more aroused and by then he was lapping at her like a man who'd just given up fasting. Her breath rose, her cheeks stained pink, and then finally, Jon Snow gave Avara her first orgasm.

She trembled and stifled her moan as she felt her whole body fill with fire and electricity while her sopping cunt splattered excitedly over her bastard lover's lips.

She was so wet after every time he did that...


End file.
